Hunter and Hunted
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: A hunt for a berserker in the woods soon becomes a hunt for Winchesters when the cops become involved and Sam is injured.


_This story first appeared in _Blood Brothers 2 _(2008), from Gold'n Lily Press_  
_For my dear Jeanne for her birthday_

**Hunter and Hunted**  
K Hanna Korossy

The roll of thunder reverberated through the tops of the evergreens. Maples and oaks had lined the trees on the road there, foliage bright green with mid-Spring growth, but the forest itself was thick with the jades and olives of firs and pines. They rustled in the rising wind, ominous whispers.

Sam breathed in deeply the rain-swollen air as he followed his brother into the woods. Not that he was looking forward to maybe getting caught in a rainstorm—he still had vivid memories of their last rainy hunt, when Dean made him walk back to the nearby motel after a dunking in a puddle left Sam coated head-to-boots in mud—but the fresh air cleared his head. He hadn't slept well the night before, the nightmares not as sharp and fiery as in the past, but still leaving him with a feeling of dread and being husked out. Dean had stopped asking weeks before, simply making it clear he would listen if Sam wanted to talk, but he'd been keeping an obvious eye on Sam that morning. He'd let him sleep in, picked him up some tea and bagels while Sam was in the shower, left the teasing unusually light. It was his way of trying to help, and Sam appreciated it more than he could say, but some things just needed time.

"If it starts raining, I'm going back," Dean grumbled in front of him.

Sam's mouth seemed to curve automatically at the sound of that taciturn voice. "Scared of getting a little wet, Dean?"

Dean glanced back at him, the way his gaze swept Sam telling his little brother that the scrutiny wasn't just out of irritation. "No, scared of what you're gonna do to my car if you get all drowned-rat again."

Sam winced.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Motel's twelve miles away, Sam. I'm not gonna make you walk." He paused, tilted his head in concession. "I brought tarps."

Sam snickered.

"Seriously," Dean slowed to walk beside him instead of leading, "we're after a berserker, right? Victims of opportunity, bear-like predator—you think it's gonna wander outside in the rain to try to find a meal when its smart enough to know people are gonna stay inside where it's safe?"

"Some people aren't smart enough to stay inside. You know all it takes is one person in the wrong place and wrong time…"

"Yeah, yeah," Dean said grudgingly, then glanced sideways at him. "I hate it when you get all reasonable."

Sam laughed at that one, and caught Dean's twitch of the mouth in his peripheral vision.

Dean drifted a little ahead again. Officially, he was tracking. Unofficially, he was playing shield: if they ran into something unexpected, it would have to go through him first to get to Sam. Sam sighed at the knowledge. He'd have chafed at the big brother act, except the last time he'd done that, he'd ended up shooting his brother full of rock salt. And he wasn't making a very good case for not needing a little extra looking after, nightmares and fatigue and all. Sam had caught the glint of his brother's half-open eyes at least once when he'd woken during the night, even if Dean hadn't gotten up with him. He saved the outright brotherly TLC now for the times Sam woke screaming.

It was hard for Sam to swallow his pride, though. Three years of being determinedly on his own had gotten him out of practice of accepting help. But maybe—

Dean suddenly stopped, his arm coming up, palm flat against Sam's chest. Sam instantly fell silent, crouching a little lower, listening for what had Dean's head cocked and attention absorbed. Sometimes he could swear Dean had the ears of a cat.

Even without the particular alertness, it would have been hard to miss the scream that followed a moment later.

Dean broke into a run, Sam keeping pace behind him.

They weren't that far into the woods; they were coming up to where the berserker's first victim had been discovered. Bear maulings, the papers had called the string of deaths. Suspicious, the police had silently maintained, and kept investigating. Bears generally didn't kill their victims and leave them behind intact, nor use only their claws when attacking. That detail had been what had caught Sam's eye in the first place. So, while the press had hypothesized wild animals, and law enforcement a particularly nasty serial killer who liked using multiple blades, the Winchesters had set out to hunt a berserker. It made sense with the local population being mostly Scandinavian.

So was the latest victim.

Dean slid to a halt in the loose ground cover of pine needles and vegetation, which Sam read as a signal to bring his gun up. He did, even as he took in the scene past his brother's shoulder.

The berserker was easily the biggest he'd seen, hairy and misshapen but still bipedal and carrying hints of the human it had once been. It was fully feral now, however, its eyes glinting with instinctive malice, its claws soaked in red. The blood of the blonde woman on the ground in front of the creature, her chest a gory mess. Unbelievably, she was still trying to call for help, chest heaving with the effort. Still alive.

Sam's and Dean's guns went off at the same time.

The berserker howled, jerking to one side. It had turned its head at the last moment, or else Dean's bullet would have gotten it right in the face. It just clipped an ear instead. Sam had aimed for center mass, and between the two of them they staggered the thing but didn't kill it. Dean was already preparing the second shot.

The berserker took off into the woods, lunging behind a tree before the bullet could reach it.

"Check the girl," was all Dean said, and then he was in pursuit, vanishing into the underbrush the berserker had disappeared into.

Sam watched him go with a twinge; separating on a hunt always meant no one to watch your back, and Dean's little bout with mortality in the form of a damaged heart was still too recent for time to have dulled the fear. But the berserker was injured, on the defense instead of the offense, and even its massive size wouldn't stop a well-placed shot from bringing it down. Dean could have finished off this hunt on his own when he was sixteen.

Besides, there was the girl.

Sam hurried to her side, laying his axe and shotgun on the ground as he did a quick visual assessment. And realized with a sinking heart that her struggles before had been death throes. Cornflower eyes stared sightlessly up at the sky, fists uncurled, chest still. The rising wind blew her blood-clumped hair into her face, and Sam gently moved it aside as he tried for a pulse in her neck. Considering he could _see_ her motionless heart peeking through the torn flesh of her chest, however, the gesture was routine at best. Bowing his head, he reached up and slid his palm over her eyes, closing them for the last time.

"Freeze!"

Sam did for a second, for the sheer shock of the unexpected voice if nothing else. Between the berserker's noise and his own stumbling regret, he hadn't heard anyone else approach. Especially not—Sam risked raising his head, and silently groaned—a pair of uniformed cops, both their revolvers trained on him.

"Hands up, away from your body!"

He was already complying, even as he urgently spoke. "This is not what it looks like—I'm hunting the thing that did this to her." With any luck, they'd think he was alone. "She was already dying when I got here."

The older cop, middle-aged and donut-middled, sneered at him. "Right. Everyone 'round here hunts with a knife like that. What are you, some kind of Satanist?"

Sam hid a grimace. Charles Manson and the brief rise of cult crimes in the seventies had never ceased to be a threat in some law enforcement circles. "No," he said calmly, "I just wasn't sure what to expect."

"Uh-huh. Lie down on your stomach, hands extended."

They weren't total incompetents, these small-town officers. Sam slowly obeyed. They'd come across him armed to the teeth and bent over a slashed, dead girl. Sam couldn't exactly blame them for the conclusions they'd reached.

The problem here—well, besides the whole being-arrested-for-serial-killing thing—was that Dean would be sure to return soon. And Dean…Dean was a little more complicated. As in, technically dead in the eyes of society, and wanted for some murders of his own if he were somehow proved to be alive. If the cops arrested him and ran his prints… It would be a lot more than a circumstantial Suspicion of Murder charge that the two of them would have to talk themselves out of.

Sam flipped through his options and came up with a whole two of them. Ride this out, trusting the evidence to prove him innocent and hoping Dean didn't show up at the wrong moment. Or resist arrest. It wasn't like they knew who he was, after all. There'd be a poorly drawn sketch that would pop up on TV for a few days, then he'd just be another suspect who'd gotten away.

Yeah, it really wasn't much of a contest.

He waited until the footsteps were right beside his head and he was sure where the other cop was standing. Another long rumble of thunder offered some additional cover, and Sam took it, blurring into motion.

A quick ankle sweep brought the approaching officer down, right on top of Sam. Which was exactly what he'd intended, considering it ruined the other cop's clear line of sight. Besides, Sam had size and agility on both of them. In a second, he'd shouldered up the cop; another second and he sent the man flying after his partner. Sam lingered only long enough to see them both go down in a tangle of limbs. Then he ran, leaving weapons and police alike behind.

One of the cops was quicker than he'd given them credit for, however. Several shots rang out behind him, one of them kicking bark off a tree beside Sam's head. He plowed forward even more urgently, feeling a hard jab at the back of one thigh, a scratch along his face from a sharp pine bough. A roll of thunder accompanied Sam's stumble, but he pushed on, his path darting to avoid trees and pursuers.

There was a plink of something in his hair, then cold wetness on his face. The starting sprinkle turned in moments into a shower, and if Sam had had breath for it, he would have cursed. Well, at least the rain would help hide his trail.

When he was finally certain he was out of sight, Sam veered tightly to the right, then paused behind a particularly large trunk to catch his breath and regroup. His lungs burned, his face stung, and his leg felt heavy and numb. Sam reached back to rub the bruised muscle.

His hand encountered wetness that was too thick and warm to be rain. A lot of it.

Disbelieving, he reeled his hand in and looked at the fingers. Blood. His leg was bleeding. He hadn't run into a branch, he'd been _shot_.

Sam groaned and stepped away from the tree, testing the injured limb. With the first wash of adrenaline fading from his system along with its analgesic effect, the punctured muscle was starting to ache and burn, the little piece of metal embedded in it shifting. On the third step, the leg buckled altogether, whiting Sam's vision out for a good second with a bolt of pain up his body, into his brain.

Sam clawed his fingers into the wet ground. Not _now._ Dean was out in the woods chasing something lethal, not knowing a second, equally dangerous predator had just joined the hunt. And Sam was…Sam had just gone from backup to liability. Instead of leading the cops away, he'd end up the lure to pull Dean in, because his brother would come to his rescue even if it meant getting caught himself.

Sam wasn't going to let that happen. It was time he was the shield for his brother.

He quickly dug out the handkerchief John had always made them carry, good for a thousand and one uses. Today it was a pressure bandage, and Sam wound it around his thigh, pulling it as tight as he could stand, teeth gritted. It hurt in waves, but he wasn't giving himself any options. Get back on his feet and keep moving, or give up Dean. There wasn't anything there to think about.

Bleeding staunched, Sam locked his jaw, then got his good leg under him and pushed up, hard. As soon as he was high enough to reach, he grasped the nearest sturdy branch, ignoring the prick of its needles in order to find his balance. The scenery washed away again for a few seconds, but he closed his eyes and rode out the vertigo and fluctuating blood pressure. When things steadied once more, Sam blinked his eyes open and looked around.

There hadn't been any sign of pursuit while he ran, but now, between the rushes of air that blew the hair into his eyes, he could faintly hear the crash of underbrush. They were coming.

Sam scanned the area around him, picked his path, then clamped one hand hard around his throbbing leg and limped as fast as he could out of there.

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Stupid berserkers. Something this dumb didn't deserve to be a successful killer.

Okay, the creature was wounded, but still. It raced through the trees without any attempt to hide its trail, fixed only on flight. Which, yeah, made it easy to follow, but c'mon, Dean had better things to do than chase its bleeding hide all over the forest until he could put it out of both their miseries. With his luck, he'd probably get there just as it gave up and died on its own.

Besides, he wasn't crazy about the splitting-up part. He'd left Sam with the less physically dangerous job, but there were other kinds of risks. Like ending up with a broody little brother for the next few days, depressed about having lost another victim, if the girl died. At least, that's what Dean would tease him for. Really, though, he knew Sam just wore his heart on his sleeve, and while Dean honestly wouldn't have changed that about him if he could've, he wished Sam didn't feel as deeply as he did for the victims. There was empathy, and then there was tearing yourself apart. Sam didn't always know where that line was.

But he was better at the comforting-the-victim thing, and Dean was even less keen about his brother taking off after the berserker, so it was the lesser of two evils. It just meant he was anxious to get this over with and get back to Sam.

A shot rang out in the forest behind him.

Dean skidded to a halt, looking back the way he'd come with wide eyes. No way. Had there been another berserker? The things didn't usually work in groups, but it wouldn't be the first time he'd seen it happen. But wait, that wasn't the shotgun. Sounded more like a handgun, and Sam didn't have one with him. Which meant…

Dean started running back to the small clearing, drawing on reserves of speed he hadn't even begun to tap while chasing the injured berserker. It could wait. Sam was in trouble.

He slowed as he got closer, concern for his brother gnawing holes in his stomach but training reluctantly taking precedence. It wouldn't help Sam if Dean ran right into the middle of some situation and got himself trapped—or worse—too. He approached with stealth instead, going even quieter and lower as the sound of voices broke through.

"…armed and possibly injured but extremely dangerous. Need some backup…"

Dean cursed silently and dropped into a crouch. Cops. Just what they needed. From the location of their voices and what they were calling in about, Dean was guessing they'd come across Sam with the girl and jumped to some very unpleasant conclusions. That was bad enough.

But "possibly injured"? That was what had his heart hammering against his ribs.

Okay, so they'd shot at Sam. As Dean slunk forward and got a peek at the cops, he could see his brother had wreaked some havoc of his own: both men were dusting themselves off, one rubbing an ankle like it hurt, the other wincing at some other unseen bruise. Dean's mouth pulled up in spite of the situation. _Way to go, Sammy_. He'd probably jumped Andy and Barney there and taken off into the woods. Hence the shooting. That was no reason to think Sam was injured, especially without any sign of the kid having gone down. No reason at all.

As quietly as he'd approached, Dean melted back into the forest.

He made a generous circle of the small clearing, wanting to stay out of sight but within earshot of the police. So far it seemed like they were just waiting for reinforcements, but they kept staring toward the north, and Dean figured that was the way Sam had gone. He slowed as he approached his brother's likely escape route, looking for signs Sam had been there.

A drop of water on his nose had Dean craning up, just in time to get another in his eye. Cursing silently, he hurried up, seeking any telltales before the rain washed them away.

The blood, splashed onto a pinecone, was watery by the time he spotted it but still obvious. Dean's curses were immediately joined by silent pleading.

He looked narrowly in the direction Sam had disappeared, knowing he'd lose the trail in a few minutes in the increasingly heavy rain. But Sam was on his feet and moving, hanging in there for the moment. The priority now was making sure he wasn't arrested, charged, separated from Dean. Which meant the best way Dean could help him was to protect him from the flank, get the dogs off his trail. Hopefully just figuratively.

He headed back toward the officers. Away from Sam.

As it turned out, the cops were heading out, too. Not far, just back to their car on an access road a few dozen feet out. They'd probably been patrolling the area when they'd heard the same scream that had drawn the Winchesters. Another two cars were pulling up behind the first, followed by an SUV, lights flashing on all three but running silent. Not wanting their prey to know they were there. Dean smirked bitterly.

He watched as the cars emptied, two officers each from the squad cars, four from the SUV. Ten people all together, talking quietly as they pulled on rain gear and checked weapons. On the one hand, their bright yellow slickers would make them easy to track. On the other, it was ten to two, with Sam maybe hurt. Those weren't odds Dean cared for.

But then, a lot could happen in the woods.

He moved close enough to catch the gist of their plans, straining to hear over the deluge: splitting into pairs, staying in touch via radio, going out on headings of northeast, northwest, and north. Dean stayed until he knew all he needed to, then started moving. He had some preparations to make.

He didn't have a lot of supplies, not daring to take the time to make a run back to the car. But their dad had taught them a lot of tricks, some lethal, some not. One time, Dean had been sent to bag his brother without a scratch on either one of them. He'd done it, too, if you didn't count the bruised chin he'd gotten from a flailing fist when he'd finally let Sam out of the tarp snare. He had less to work with this time, but Dean was good at improvising.

The first pair went down almost too easily.

"Sorry, guys," he said to the officers, giving them an easy, cold smile. He'd had time to set up and had made the most of it: these two had fallen for a simple blind covering a sharp incline. Literally. Stepping onto the mat of pine needles and branches, they'd slipped down into a creek bed before they could stop themselves. It hadn't taken long to knock them insensate, then cuff them around a tree trunk thick enough to keep their arms fully extended. Uncomfortable but safe. Well…assuming the berserker didn't come back, but considering it was injured and running fast in the opposite direction when Dean had last seen it, he was willing to take the chance. Dean patted one of the cops on the head while the guy eyed him murderously—oh, right, there was also the homemade gags stuffed in their mouths—then moved on.

The second trap sprung was actually the first he'd set. He had no wire on him, but his shoelaces tied together made an adequate substitute. Stretched low to the ground between two trees along the cops' path, it had almost been a gimme. Unfortunately, only one officer had stumbled over it, but Dean had jumped them both while his partner was distracted with helping him. He cuffed and gagged his two newest catches, reclaimed his shoelaces, and kept going.

These had been the two easiest pairs: the ones bringing up the rear, the ones whose approach he'd been able to watch. Now, he had to do some tracking of his own.

The rain was a steady beat of sound around and above him, the overcast sky leaving the lower strata of the forest in shadowy gloom. Dean stopped for a moment, closing his eyes and just listening. Cops were trained to search, probably knew this area a lot better than he did…but they were also as stealthy as rampaging bulls. Not that Dean had ever seen any in person, but those Discovery Channel specials made them look pretty awesome. And loud. He could hear his next target at about…ten o'clock, tramping away from him.

Dean sneered and went to say hello.

He hadn't been able to booby-trap every avenue of pursuit, but sometimes the simplest traps were the best. The next was one of the most basic: ambush from above. People, even trained searchers, rarely looked up. Dean's fall knocked one cop out, a small woman, without him laying a single blow. Her partner went down harder, but considering he'd hit the forest floor while Dean landed on his feet, the guy didn't have to go far. In deference to the woman, Dean picked a smaller tree to cuff them to. Still impossible to free themselves from, but with room to sit if they wanted to. Once they were conscious again.

He'd confiscated the weapons of each person he'd taken down so far, unloaded them, then tossed all the ammo into the forest. The woman cop, however, carried both the same caliber gun Dean had and a small first aid kit. Dean relieved her of ammo and kit, and stashed them inside his jacket before he started moving again.

Not even intent listening revealed the locations of the last two parties; they'd gone too far ahead. But so far, Dean had headed off pairs moving north and northeast. Figured at least one of those he was looking for were northwest. Dean aligned himself with the help of his compass and headed out, peering through the rain for any signs of a trail.

At least it wasn't winter. The nightmare of November second had given way to a grief-stricken Thanksgiving, then a Christmas spent watching _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ in a small motel room outside Fresno. Dean's birthday had been a candle stuck in a cupcake, almost as painful as it was touching. Sam's eyes had bled from Bloody Mary, then a fake Dean had nearly choked him to death. And that was before they had seen Mom again too briefly.

So Dean was glad for spring. He was wet, but at least he wasn't chilled to the bone, and the days were getting longer. They still had hours to ditch all the cops and get out of Dodge. Preferably to a warm, dry motel room where they could dress whatever graze Sam had gotten and watch a lot of bad TV and eat cheeseburgers and chili fries. The berserker could wait another day.

Dean shivered, turning the collar of his jacket up in a fruitless attempt to keep his neck dry, then checked his bearings and kept going.

He studied the landscape around him as he went. The trees had thinned here as the ground started to rise into sloping hills. He thought he remembered that the deeper into the woods you went, the more hilly the terrain became. Neither of them had paid much attention, knowing the berserker's hunting grounds were near the edge of the tree line where it could find victims. Now, Dean wished he'd prepared better. Their dad would've been disappointed. Still, if Sam had found a crag or an overhang to hole up in…

Dean slowed, eyes narrowing. Something about the angle of the ground in front of him was odd. Almost like…

He moved forward, tilting his head this way and that as he tried to figure out what he was seeing. A particularly thick stand of trees had him crouching down to push them out of the way…to reveal the fissure that hid behind them.

It was easily wide enough for a body. Dean held his breath hopefully as he turned sideways to slide inside. There, carved out between rock and a fallen tree, was a gap big enough for maybe two, dry and well-hidden. And empty. If Sam had found cover, it wasn't here.

Frustration growing—he refused to call it fear yet—Dean wriggled back out. Sam was a good hunter and could have found shelter anywhere. The fact that no one had tracked him down yet, cops or Dean, was actually a positive sign. This was good news. Really.

Dean squared his shoulders and hiked on, heading back to lower ground.

Until a hand suddenly closed around his ankle.

00000

By the third time he stopped to wipe the water out of his eyes, Sam knew it wasn't just rain blurring his sight.

The pain in his leg had spiraled to where he barely felt anything else. His bones ached and jostled, his muscles stretched around torn tissue, and the bullet felt like a hot, sharp stick shoving up his leg and into his body with every step. Warm waves of heat rolled through him, followed by goose-pimpled chills, and his head swam with the rollercoaster temperatures. His disorientation was growing. If he didn't go to ground somewhere soon, get the weight off his leg, he was going to pass out in the open for anybody to find.

Not for the first time, his mind wandered to Dean. His brother had surely heard the shots; had he returned and been arrested by the cops? Was he working on a plan to get them off the trail? Or was he looking for Sam? Because competent or not, Sam was ready for a little bailing out.

He stumbled over an exposed root, gasping at the fierce wash of pain. It turned his vision into fireworks when he tried to catch himself on a nearby sapling and his hand slipped off the rain-slick branches. Sam crashed to his knees and kept right on going, huddled on the forest floor with his tender leg pulled in to his chest. He felt helpless and weak and all of about eight again, waiting for his brother to come and fix things.

But he wasn't going to just lie there and hope his brother found him before the cops did. Not while he had any pride or strength left at all.

Sam pried his eyes open and scanned the area around him. It looked different from ground level, rife with small nooks and shadowed underbrush, hollows and alcoves and crannies to hide in. In fact, right there…

Sam managed to get to his hands and knees, grunting as he slid forward on his good leg, dragging the bad behind him. The space was small, just the foot or so between the bottom of a small tree and the ground. But its foliage was bushy, and it was flush up against a larger tree, offering more cover and something solid at his back. Sam crawled and crept, biting his lip until it bled, not feeling the scrape of the rough forest floor beneath his palms. Sinking down with a groan of mingled relief and pain under the tree, then rolling himself in, hidden. It wasn't a great concealment by a long shot; the mighty John Winchester wouldn't have approved. But it provided some shelter and concealment, and right now it was the best Sam could do. Their dad had also taught them pragmatism.

Sam worked on his ragged breathing, trying to slow and steady it along with the thud of his heartbeat in his ears. He had to hear, had to listen for pursuit. If the cops found him, he'd need to fight, even if he felt like melting into the hard ground and sleeping for a week.

The rain continued to pour, dripping on him through gaps in the dense greenery above, trickling down the wet soil into his small shelter. He couldn't stop shivering anymore and didn't know if it was merely from the rain, but there wasn't anything to be done about it except to keep his leg as still as possible. Every shudder ripped pain through him like the tear of flesh and muscle.

Then, through the splatter of raindrops, came the sound of footsteps.

Sam pulled himself in a little tighter. He was tall and not exactly slender, but he was flexible, and he'd balled himself up as tightly as his throbbing leg would allow. Thankfully, he was wearing dark clothes, jeans and his navy jacket. Only his shoes were light-colored, but they were tucked under him. He just had to blend, staying silent and still until the danger passed.

The new arrival was alone, moving with a rhythm that nagged at Sam's brain like a beat he'd been hearing all his life. He shifted a little to see better, stifling the groan that wanted to rise as his leg protested. His face felt flushed, his skin oversensitized to cold as he tilted it into the rain.

It was worth it to see those steel-toed CAT boots come into sight.

Sam's body sagged, fearful, pained tension melting from his bones. He willed his brother another few feet closer, then reached out with a trembling hand and grasped his ankle.

Dean froze, then dropped into a crouch, leg flexing in Sam's grip but carefully not breaking it. A slow smile, mixed worry and relief, met Sam's gaze a moment later.

"Little old for hide-and-seek, Sammy," Dean said softly, reaching down and under Sam's arms to pull him out.

Sam figured his brother would know if exposure was safe, and let himself be tugged free, pushing weakly at the ground to help. "Tag," he corrected through gritted teeth.

Another few seconds, and he was sitting facing Dean, his brother's eyes and one hand skimming over him looking for injury while the other hand held on to his arm. "Yeah, looks like it's my turn to be It." Dean didn't take long to find the handkerchief bandage, and one eyebrow cocked at Sam. "Bad?"

Sam shook his head wearily. "Muscle, no exit. Friggin' hurts."

"I'll bet." Dean left it for now, eyes sweeping the area around them while he smoothed Sam's sodden hair out of his face, then cupped the side of his neck. When he looked back again, it was directly into Sam's eyes. "Cops called in some reinforcements—I can't get you out of here until I take care of them. We need to stash you someplace safe meanwhile."

Sam sighed. So not what he wanted to hear. Even now, it took a lot of effort to keep from just flopping against Dean, let him take care of things. Sam was wet clear down to his shorts, the slow, sick throb of his leg was turning his stomach, and his head felt a little too light. All he wanted was some pain meds and rest. Or even a trip back to the car and, eventually, a cozy motel room. Heck, he'd settle for any place that was dry.

What he had, however, was a worried brother who was even now jostling him to stay focused and who wouldn't let him sleep. "Yeah, all right," he murmured.

Dean hesitated, hand massaging the side of Sam's neck. "I found a cave before—it's not far, okay?" He kept ducking down to keep Sam's eyes in sight, as if both of them didn't already know what the other was thinking. He wasn't asking if Sam was up for going because they had no choice, but he still wanted the reassurance his brother was ready to do it.

Sam took a breath and shoved at Dean's jacket with clumsy, muddy hands. "I'll be all right, man. Let's just go."

Dean's head dipped in affirmation, hands squeezing reassuringly. Then he abruptly grinned. "Dude, you look like a wet sheepdog."

His answering groan became one in earnest as he dropped a hand over Dean's shoulder and his brother hoisted him to his feet. Well, foot, anyway. Dean patted his chest, then left his hand there as prop as they lurched forward.

Sam just clung to his brother's jacket and, for once, didn't mind leaning on his big brother.

00000

Dean moved slowly, more in deference to Sam's unsteady hobble than for any kind of stealth, although he kept an ear trained to signs of someone approaching. Great hunt this was turning out to be: they get there too late to save the girl, the berserker manages to take off, the cops close in, and Sam gets himself shot. Dean squinted up into the sky. Even the rain wasn't letting up. Perfect. Dean just had to find a bear trap to step into, and the day would be complete.

Truth be told, he didn't care much about any of it except the Sam getting hurt part. They couldn't save everybody, they'd dodged cops before, worked in all kinds of weather. But Sam getting punctured? Not part of any plan Dean was on board with. It could have been worse—so much worse—but Sam in any kind of pain was the definition of a hunt gone bad. Dean just wanted it over with, to get Sam somewhere warm and safe and comfortable, passed out on painkillers. Was that too much to ask? He pulled the hand over his shoulder a little tighter in, felt Sam lean into him in response.

Sam's eyes were closed, his face already drawn from injury and fatigue. He was trusting Dean to navigate for them both, but his rapidly draining energy worried his big brother. Leg wounds could be minor or they could be fatal, and they weren't out of the woods yet by any definition.

"Dude, quit staring," Sam muttered without opening his eyes.

Dean shook his head, grinning. "I know you need your beauty sleep, just want to make sure you don't doze off on me yet." It was a joke, but by the way Sam tilted his head into Dean's, he could tell Sam was dizzy, struggling. His jaw trembled from his chattering teeth. Dean chewed his lip. "Maybe we should try to get you back to the car."

Sam's head swayed side-to-side. "Berserker's still out there…could get one of 'em." He lifted his face up to stare Dean in the eye with surprising clarity. "And if we run into anybody, you won't be able to move fast enough. 'S is a big enough chance already. I'm not letting you get arrested."

Dean gave him an amused look even as he cringed inside. He'd suspected that was the main reason Sam had run instead of trusting his beloved law to clear him. It was as humbling as it was exasperating. "Dude, you wouldn't be able to stop a fly right now."

Sam's mouth pinched into that sour _I'm not kidding_ look.

Dean resisted a roll of the eyes. Amazing how Sam could be whiny and stubborn even when half out of it. "All right, Mighty Mouse, let's get you under some cover." The cave, thank God, was already in sight ahead.

The problem with being someone's crutch was that it meant them leaning all their weight on you with every step. When that someone was a giant like Sam, a sore shoulder was pretty much a given, not to mention legs that trembled nearly as badly as his brother's by the time Dean could ease him through the hidden entrance of the alcove and down to the floor. It didn't help that Sam was on the verge of passing out at that point, breathing in sharp pants and starting to slide sideways as soon as he hit the ground.

"Hey, whoa." Dean reached out and righted him, then leaned him back against the rock face. "Sam, you still with me?"

The jerky nod wasn't all that reassuring, especially since Sam didn't even open his eyes for it.

Dean clasped his face between both hands, holding it up while Sam's neck muscles figured out how to work again. Slowly, his brother raised his head out of Dean's grip and tilted it back against the rock. His eyes slitted open to watch Dean with dull awareness.

Dean briskly rubbed his arms a few times. "How bad is the leg, Sam?"

The long neck bobbed. "Hurts."

He looked down at it. Not much light filtered into the small natural enclosure, and it was impossible to separate bloodstains from water. But Dean could see the leg was swollen, taut skin pressing no doubt painfully against denim. He reached in his pocket with one hand for his knife and felt down Sam's leg for a pulse with the other, checking the circulation. It wasn't strong, but it wasn't restricted, either, and he didn't see any signs of fresh blood. Cutting the jeans would just cool Sam faster and maybe start the bleeding again, and it wasn't like he could remove the bullet out there in those conditions. Dean switched his grip to the first aid kit he'd confiscated and pulled it free, picking through it in the dim light. An Ace wrap, some large band-aids, a vial of painkillers. Almost useless, he thought disgustedly, but he did palm the pills.

Dean shook his head and shifted his attention back up to his brother's face. "Sam, listen to me. There are still four cops out there, I'm not sure where. I've gotta go take care of them, then I'll come back for you. You hear me?"

"Berserker?" Sam whispered.

"Later," Dean answered, going through his other pockets. Gun—check. He laid it next to Sam's sprawled hand along with the bullets he'd gotten from the lady cop.

Sam's head rolled weakly. "Cops in…danger. Dean, need to—"

Dean growled a curse. "Sam—"

A hand gripped his wrist, hard. "No, Dean. Can't leave…'em here. Not safe."

Dean glared at him heatlessly. "Dude, you're like a friggin' Boy Scout, you know that?"

One corner of Sam's mouth pulled up. "Who helped…old lady 'cross…th' street last week?"

Dean winced; he'd really hoped Sam hadn't witnessed that. "She was blind, man, and the cars were goin', like, sixty."

"Softie," Sam murmured, sagging against the rock.

"Freak," Dean shot back just as fondly. He continued unloading his pockets. Holy water—check. He screwed the flask open and offered the pills to Sam, who fumbled them into his mouth. Dean tipped the silver flask against Sam's mouth. "Drink."

Sam got a few swallows down before sighing his satisfaction. Dean screwed the cap back on and set it beside the gun. Water was water.

Pockets emptied, Dean finally shrugged out of the jacket. He wished it were heavier, but at least it was waterproof. "C'mon, Sam," he invited, pulling his brother forward by the shoulders, then working the jacket over him.

Sam's eyes fluttered open, confused for a moment before they cleared. "Dean, no. You need—"

"I'm wet anyway, bro. You're running a fever—you need it more."

Dean ducked his head when Sam gave him those helpless _I love you, too _eyes. He didn't need to see it to know it, never had, not even when Sam had watched him from the bus as it left for Stanford. You didn't raise someone and not know how they felt about you. But you didn't raise them to suffer when you could do something about it, either, and Sam didn't always get that part.

Dean kneaded his shoulder gently and finally met his eyes. "I'll be back soon, Sam."

"I know."

"Stay here no matter what, you got me? I don't care what you hear, you _stay here_. I'll come back."

Sam nodded, swallowing. Amazing how a twenty-two-year-old grown man could look eight again with his hair in his eyes and his pupils wide. Dean cuffed him lightly on the side of the head, then grabbed the knife he'd taken out of his pocket and stood.

Injured Sam left behind, alone—check.

"I'll be back," Dean repeated, a quiet promise.

Sam shrunk into his jacket and nodded, eyes already closed again. But his hand was wrapped around the gun on the ground beside him.

Dean left before he could talk himself out of going.

Back out into the rain, jacketless this time, he felt his certainty sluice away with the water that quickly soaked his shirt. He had no idea where the search party's remnants had gone, where the berserker was, or how long Sam would be okay with a new hole in his leg. In all, it was a pretty lousy way to hunt.

Dean checked his compass, the sky, the terrain around him. Okay, if the cops had stayed basically on the headings they'd left in, that meant they'd be…roughly that way.

Dean started hiking.

It took him almost an hour before he heard anything, long past the point where his clothes had become glued to him like a second skin and the chill had settled into a distant buzz. But adrenaline and his cautious stalking had kept him warm enough, and his hand didn't tremble as he swung out from behind a tree and laid a knife to the cop's throat.

"Looking for someone?"

This cop was alone; he must've split up with his partner for some reason. It meant more people to find, but easier pickings once done. Dean didn't even bother knocking the guy out, just cuffed him around a tree trunk, gagged him, and left.

The next one took him nearly another hour to find. The guy was hyper-aware, maybe looking for his buddy, and it took extra effort to sneak up on him. Dean's impatience rang through his punch as he probably broke the guy's nose. His "sorry" was token at best.

He was just hauling the cop to the nearest tree when he heard the distant shout.

_"Come on out! We have your partner."_

And for the first time in the unrelenting wind and rain, Dean's blood ran cold.

00000

The alcove warmed quickly from the humidity and Sam's body heat. Together with the monotone sound of the rain and the lassitude that kept sweeping through him, he soon found himself dozing off, head snapping up from his chest a few times before he finally succumbed.

He didn't know what woke him or how much later. The light trickling in from outside didn't seem any dimmer, and the rain still fell in an unrelenting downpour. His leg throbbed with every heartbeat, but nothing new there. Sam shifted it a little, groaning silently.

Outside the alcove, something groaned loud and keenly.

Sam bolted upright, Dean's gun fitting into his hand with comforting familiarity. Sam pressed himself back against the rock wall and listened.

There was snuffling outside, then a low growl that sounded pained. The trees at the mouth of the fissure shook like something had shoved at them.

The berserker. It had probably smelled his blood. Sam raised a trembling arm to aim the gun at the entrance and wait.

The thing huffed again, yowled unhappily, then shuffled on.

The entrance was too small. Sam's arm dropped in relief, the crown of his head thunking back to the rock. Thank God.

Minutes went by. With the passing of the crisis, his body sunk lower, his mind swimming and starting to drift again.

The sound of voices jerked his spine straight once more.

"…reach them. Don't know…radio…"

He couldn't make out the softer answer. But the source was clear: the posse was close by. And they didn't know it, but the berserker was, too.

Sam forced himself to concentrate, tracing the voices and steps as they grew close, then faded again. Yeah, definitely heading west, the same direction the berserker had gone. And their guns wouldn't do much good without the silver bullets with which Sam's was loaded.

He tried to peer at his watch, but he couldn't even see the numbers on it. It felt like Dean had been gone a long time even though Sam didn't think it was. What had Dean said, there were still four officers out there? It could take a while to non-lethally incapacitate all of them, but Sam hadn't had a doubt that was what Dean meant. And he'd told Sam to stay there, no matter what he heard, to just stay and wait. To let him take care of things.

Sam curled against the rock, trying to think. His leg was a mess and wouldn't carry him far. He was weak with fever and blood loss, and his eyes had given up focusing a long time ago. Dean would be coming back there to look for him soon, very possibly in time to deal with the berserker. Sam had every reason to remain right where he was.

Except one. He was a hunter, and he couldn't just sit by and let people die.

Sam pushed himself to his feet, inch by determined inch. He moaned quietly with the effort, clenched the gun and the rock face until his knuckles were white with strain. Finally balanced on his good leg, he tried a quick hop, fleeting pressure on the bad one.

He had to choke back a sob at the excruciating pain that battered through him.

But he hadn't fallen. He still had his gun. He was still a hunter. Sam set his jaw and kept going: step, hop, step, hop.

At least no one could hear him whimpering softly under his breath with each advance. _Like a girl_, Dean would make fun of him, and Sam wished he was there even if just to tease.

It was hard to get out of the narrow opening, but he finally emerged with a gasp, the rain instantly washing the sweat from his face. He'd almost forgotten the chilly downpour, and his fever-warm body reacted quickly, starting to shiver. Because he wasn't miserable enough. Sam found his bearing and hobbled forward, ignoring the wounded sounds that pushed themselves out of his throat. He only cared about one thing now: finding and stopping the berserker.

The movement soon became automatic. His mind wandered, hazy. The cold had faded, even the pain settling into the backdrop, until there was only the gun in his hand, the need to move on.

He had no warning before an icy barrel suddenly pressed into his neck, forcing his chin up.

"I knew I hit you," came the equally frigid voice, and Sam snapped back into the present with the sinking knowledge that he was well and truly screwed.

Dean's gun was twisted out of his hand, the barrel against his throat unrelenting as hands roughly patted him down. He cried out when they slid down his injured leg, wobbling him on his feet, but a hand clamped onto his upper arm, rough where Dean had been careful, and held him upright. Sam blinked to clear his vision.

It was the older cop from the clearing, the one he'd swept to the ground, his younger partner standing behind him. The senior officer's face was twisted with anger and disgust. "Come on," he ordered, then turned and pulled Sam along remorselessly.

Sam stumbled and gasped and concentrated on staying on his feet, because he had a feeling he would be dragged if he were to fall. Some part of him tried to come up with a plan, an explanation, even a simple stall. But the thoughts fell apart like a bundle of sticks whenever he tried to focus. All except for his deepest instinct, programmed almost since birth, that pleaded for his brother.

He didn't know how long they went, losing track of time completely. His leg was on fire, the pain burning and shredding its way through his nervous system, and his breaths came in raw gulps as he tried to stay conscious and moving. Fear of the berserker, pride, the duty of the hunt, everything dissolved into pain and keeping moving and wanting Dean. Needing his brother to make this better, because Sam didn't think he could stand it any longer.

Just as Sam was on the cusp of falling away into the dark, they finally stopped. He swayed where he stood, blinking dazedly, then cried out when he was shoved to his knees. The pressure in his leg was incredible, and Sam sank onto his heels, just trying to breathe. He barely felt it as a handful of his hair was grabbed and his head jerked back.

He saw the dark eyes boring into his, though.

"Where's your partner?"

He tried to speak, the sound coming out broken. Sam swallowed, tried again. "Alone."

The backhanded blow rocked his whole body, sending his fuzzy vision swimming. His stomach turned, and Sam tried to bend forward a little to relieve it, but the hand in his hair wouldn't let him go.

The remorseless grip shook him, and the dark eyes narrowed.

"Let's try this again. I know you have a partner—my men have been disappearing. So make it easy on yourself—where is he?"

Sam licked blood from his split lip and stared into the small eyes. "No…partner," he ground out.

The second strike knocked him onto his side. Sam jackknifed into a ball and promptly threw up into the wet forest detritus.

He heard the curses vaguely, felt himself hoisted to his knees once more. His leg still blazed with pain, but it was becoming hard to care. His mind spun, floating, and he wasn't sure anymore where he was.

The hard blow that snapped his head back brought him crashing down into his battered body again with an impact that sprang tears to his eyes.

Sam curled forward on his knees, trying to breathe through the pressure that constricted his chest. He didn't resist when his head was forced back once more by the grip in his hair, didn't even try to open his eyes.

There was a snort. "Fine. You don't want to talk, you can just be bait."

The next words that were yelled rolled over his head, lost to his tunneling awareness.

There was something wrong with that, something that scared him, but Sam couldn't think clearly enough to work it out. He simply grit his teeth and tried to breathe and not get sick again and not cry—_such a girl, Sammy_—and wait for Dean, because Sam wasn't going to be able to get himself out of this one.

00000

Dean took one look at the scene in the clearing and started whispering profanities under his breath.

He didn't know how, but the two remaining cops—Andy and Barney again—had managed to find Sam. And not just find him, but go all Rodney King on him, too, because, hey, a guy with a bullet in his leg was going to put up a real struggle. Not that Dean would've put it past Sam, even injured, but the kid looked a lot worse for wear than when Dean had left him, and he gulped down rage and nascent panic at the sight.

Sam was on his knees in front of the older cop, just barely conscious from the way his head sagged. His hands were cuffed behind him, and the handkerchief that had been on his leg was tied around his mouth as a hasty gag. Only the gun jammed firmly against his carotid and the hand fisted in his hair seemed to be keeping him from toppling over.

Dean's hands flexed wantingly over his knife.

"Come on out, buddy! I know you're out there, and I think your friend wants to see you." Sam's hair was yanked and his head came up, the barrel forcing his chin cruelly back. The rain quickly rinsed the blood off his mouth but did nothing for the bruise stretching across his cheek. His eyes were open, but even across the small clearing, Dean could see how they wandered, unfocused. Sam was at his limits.

And Dean had just reached his.

The younger cop was circling the edge of the clearing, gun in hand, peering intently into the brush. He still didn't see Dean coming until the older Winchester popped up in front of him and took him out with a hard right cross. Even as the guy folded, Dean's gun was aimed at the second cop's head, just as the man's revolver came up to mirror Dean.

Dean's mouth quirked. Stupid 5-0 didn't even realize he'd just made a serious tactical error, thinking holding a gun on Dean would be greater motivation for him than holding one on Sam. "Your move," he spat.

The cop's eyes, dark and small, frowned unflinchingly at him. "I don't think so. I've got your partner here. What've you got?"

Dean gave a half-shrug. "A gun trained on that little mole under your right eye, and some killer reflexes. Wanna see?"

Uncertainty crossed the cop's features.

Dean didn't move. He wouldn't kill a person, not even one who'd hurt Sam, more because of how it would appall Sam than because of Dean's own moral code. But that didn't mean he wouldn't pull the trigger, put a bullet somewhere that would hurt. Maybe the cop was doing his job, but the brutality he'd shown Sam had crossed some very solid, dark lines. It would only be fair to return the favor.

And Dean would take the head shot if Sam's life was at risk. That wasn't even up for discussion.

The cop was still wavering. A small town deputy, he'd probably never even fired his gun before, let alone looked down the barrel of one. Dean shifted his hand comfortably, giving the appearance of being able to wait all day, even though the way Sam's chest lurched through the act of breathing made Dean's own ribs feel too tight. _One more minute, little brother…_

That was when the berserker burst into the clearing with a roar.

00000

Dean was there.

He wasn't quite sure of his vision, although the body language of the blurry figure before him sent a comfortable feeling of familiarity through Sam. But once he heard the voice, even distant and low, he was sure, and felt the relief like a blow.

So much for pride and self-sufficiency.

He tried to listen, although volume faded in and out as the cop looming over him negotiated with Dean for Sam's life. Sam heard the deep timbre of his brother's voice over the rain, the flat inflection, and knew Dean was majorly ticked off. That was an odd comfort, too. There was no way the cop was going to win this one.

The pain and bone-deep fatigue were a constant now, his sight increasingly dark. Sam wasn't sure he'd be able to stick around for the final act. He would have liked to have seen it; Dean unleashed was a scarily impressive sight.

And then a ground-shaking roar changed all the rules.

The hand tightened painfully in his hair, then let him go. Without its hold, Sam sprawled onto his side into the mud, breathing harshly around the gag as he tried to both stay conscious and not throw up again. He wasn't sure what would happen in either case, mind too hazy to go more than one step in any direction. But it wouldn't be good.

Like the huge, dark figure in front of him.

Sam blinked heavily. Opened his eyes to find the creature filling his vision and getting closer.

Flinched them shut.

Opened reluctantly again. There was a pair of denim-clad legs and boots between him and the advancing monster now.

He was spending way too much time up close and personal with Dean's boots.

Sam's eyes slid closed in exhausted solace, then snapped wide at the sound of several gunshots. He heard an inhuman howl, and very human cursing.

His gaze drifted to the right, to see one yellow-slickered figure bending over another. Huddled around him like Dean over Sam when he was protecting him from something. Speaking of which…

The big black mass was close to the yellow figures, but it was motionless on the ground now. Dean was heading toward it. Away from him, and Sam's mind put up a fuzzy protest even as three more shots sounded in quick succession. Then the boots turned and crossed back to him. He closed his eyes when they got too close.

"Sammy?"

Sam's throat choked up with emotion from that one concerned word. God, he'd missed his brother, the last couple of hours and the last couple of years. He didn't even care anymore if that made him weak.

A hand grazed the top of his head, his jaw, slid under his face to lift it out of the mud. It felt good and he tried to say as much, but even without the gag he didn't think he could manage anything coherent. It was Dean, though, the one guy who always understood him just fine even without words.

Sam leaned into him, resting his weight in his brother's hands, and let that say it all.

00000

Sam was a mess, but he knew Dean was there, was relieved by it, and Dean could take care of him now. He pressed his free hand briefly over Sam's still-heaving ribs. That was really all that mattered.

Well, that and the cops behind him.

Dean hadn't completely turned his back on them, but now he shifted so he could look at them sideways, leaving his hand under Sam's cheek where his brother relaxed against him, curling forward to shield him from the worst of the rain. Dean eyed the older cop who, still bent over his rousing partner, eyed him back.

"What was that thing?" The question was gruff, reluctant, but serious.

Dean stared back at him. "You really want to know?"

A moment passed, then the cop's shoulders came down a little. "Maybe not today." He shifted, and Dean's gun was in his hand just like that. The cop glowered at him. "You just saved my life—now you gonna shoot me?"

"Depends," Dean answered reasonably. "You gonna give me a reason to?"

The younger officer groaned and rolled. The older one backed off a little, but his hand stayed on his partner's shoulder, encouraging him up, supporting him as he made it to sitting and then stiffened at the sight of Dean.

Dean's gun came down a few inches. "I just want to get him out of here." He nodded back over one shoulder. "You let me do that and no one else has to get hurt."

"You expect me to let you two just walk away?"

Another small shrug. "Would it help if I tied you up?" Dean asked amiably.

The glower deepened, but he saw the cop's eyes shift from him to Sam. Dean moved over a few inches to block the piercing gaze from reaching Sam. The dark eyes snapped back to him. "I don't suppose you two had anything to do with that dead girl, either."

It was said snidely, but Dean answered it with honesty, if impatience. "Hey, who's the one with teeth and claws here?"

The cop's gaze flickered to the dead berserker, eyes calculating. He seemed to unthaw a little, asking Dean guardedly and with scrutiny, "And my men?"

Dean's mouth twitched. "Oh, they're around here somewhere. Not going anywhere, but they're safe."

He saw with approval that more of the tension went out of the man's face. He was worried about his people and his partner. It didn't remotely excuse what he'd done to Sam, but Dean got him a little more.

The cop finally gave him a curt nod. "Fine. We can find you later."

"You can try," Dean agreed, then nodded at the cop. "Cuffs."

The glower turned into a scowl. "No."

The gun re-centered on his chest then, after a moment, slid over to the younger partner, who gaped at them both. "Cuffs," Dean repeated flatly.

Every movement screaming rebellion, the cop slowly unsnapped his belt pack and pulled out the steel cuffs, then made to toss them at Dean.

Dean shook his head. "On your right hand, then his."

The cop visibly grit his teeth, but he did it, snapping the metal circles around their wrists.

"Keys, too."

One pair was produced and tossed his way. At Dean's pointed stare, the other followed.

"Throw your guns over there."

Even more reluctance, but Dean had expected as much. It was the reason he hadn't just asked for the weapons, although he straightened as the cop pulled a second piece from his waistband.

"I think that one's ours," he said coldly. It was the gun he'd given Sam.

Without more than a shift of the jaw, the cop lobbed it halfway between them.

"Go." Dean nodded then, in the opposite direction of the Impala.

Anger turned to puzzlement. "But—"

"Your people are that way. Better get going before I change my mind. But you or any of your crew try to stop us from getting out of here, and all bets are off, got it?"

The cop gave him a tight nod.

Dean nodded again to his left, and this time the officers got up, the older helping pull the younger to his feet. With one last glare at Dean and his brother, they disappeared into the trees, walking awkwardly in single-file because of the cuffs.

Dean shook his head and grabbed one of the cuff keys, then pivoted back to Sam. His brother was staring at nothing, still bound and gagged. Dean patted him on the back, then leaned over to see his hands. "Gonna get you out of here in a minute, Sam, just need to…" With a click, the cuffs released. "There. Better?" Dean eased Sam's arm forward, then slid his knife through the gag and worked it out of Sam's mouth. "Sammy?"

His brother's jaw opened and closed slowly, then his gaze slid up to Dean and he whispered something Dean had to bend down and strain to hear.

"Hate…rain."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, well, don't forget who wanted to go back if it started pouring. You ready to get dry now?"

Sam gave a small nod and managed to lift his arm a few inches.

It was all the invitation Dean needed. He ducked under it, gently pulling Sam's exhausted frame upright, then standing with him. Sam didn't protest as Dean hoisted him over one shoulder; he had to know he wouldn't be using that leg for a while, and he was clearly at the end of his strength. He just choked a little as his leg bumped against Dean's chest, and Dean shushed him. "Hang in there, Sam. It'll be over soon."

If his brother offered any answer against his back, Dean didn't hear it, and the rain drowned out anything beyond the stuttering breaths pressing against his spine. He could feel it when Sam hooked a finger through one of his belt loops, and when the kid finally passed out, his weight settling harder into Dean's shoulder.

He just held his brother tighter and kept going. His litany of quiet reassurances had been more for him than for Sam, anyway.

00000

He drifted in and out on the way back. One minute he was draped nauseatingly over Dean's shoulder, the next he was under a blanket in the Impala's back seat, then he was dropping down onto the edge of a bed. He managed to rouse a little more as Dean pressed a pair of pills on him.

"I don't wanna work on your leg until you're out."

Sam blinked his agreement. The water washed the taste of mud, cloth, and blood from his mouth, and he let the glass roll out of his limp hand when he was done. Sam sat and watched sleepily as Dean got to work. He was too lethargic to care he was being undressed like a baby, but every jostle of his leg still pulled embarrassing moans out of him. The spreading numbness was a relief, and Sam let himself sink into it as Dean tucked him into the bed and pulled the covers back from his leg.

"You're gonna be fine," his brother's whisper and touch followed him under.

Sam wasn't sure what was real and what wasn't for a while after that.

Dazed confusion deepened into dread. He wandered through a shadowed, frightening world, unsure where he was. Fire flickered in the edges of his vision. Screams echoed.

He might have thrown up again. His throat was raw and his body ached, skin oversensitive and tight.

He hurt, he shivered, he was alone, he was surrounded. Reason abandoned him along with coherent thought, and mindless terror seeped into their place. He curled up into himself, whimpering like a baby.

But the arms that held him down sometimes became the arms that held him. Dean's voice rambled on in the background, an anchor to reality. He couldn't make out the words, but the sound was enough. Sam focused on that and slowly managed to shut out the rest.

Eventually, it all faded into blessed warm silence.

He was pretty sure he floated back up once, to find his head pillowed on what seemed to be Dean's leg. The constant drumbeat of rain was gone, and a TV chattered quietly nearby. He was on his side, one arm curled by his brother's knee, blankets a warm weight on top of him. It should've been uncomfortable but wasn't. Dean's hand absently petted his head like he was a dog, a tactile memory of his childhood when he suspected Dean sometimes fantasized he had a pet instead of a shaggy-haired little brother. Sam lay still, drowsy and content, not wanting to disturb any of it.

"You all right?"

Figured his brother would know. "Mmm," was all he bothered to answer.

Dean's hand disappeared and he shifted a little, then a straw was at Sam's mouth. "Drink up, dude. I'm not taking you to the hospital for dehydration after all this."

He wasn't sure what _all this_ entailed, but Sam managed a few sips before it became too much effort. His eyes, already half shut, completed the trip.

He heard Dean's snort, felt his hand settle unselfconsciously back on Sam's head. "Go back to sleep, princess."

He thought he rocked his head _no_, a token protest to the nickname, but by then he was already gone.

The next thing he was sure of was the quiet rattle of a doorknob, and the look of surprised pleasure on Dean's face when he walked in and saw Sam awake.

"Huh. You have eyes. I was starting to wonder."

"Jerk," Sam shot back in a voice hoarser than he'd expected. He pushed himself up experimentally on one elbow. His leg was tightly wrapped, sore and a little numb, but nothing screamed in pain. It let him concentrate on his uncomfortably full bladder. "Help me up?" he asked.

"What?" Dean's face cleared. "Oh. Right."

The trip was slow, and Sam was pretty sure his brother stayed right outside the door the whole time. By the time he returned to the bed, he was ready to lie down again, his head swimming and skin layered with cold sweat. He distracted himself with the bags Dean had brought in and tossed on the table. "Food?"

"Nice to see you, too," Dean answered with amusement, but he retrieved the bags and came over to sit on the edge of Sam's bed. "How's your stomach?"

Sam frowned, puzzled, and his hand drifted down to his abdomen. "Empty?" he ventured, uncertain what was being asked.

Dean nodded, digging into the bag. "You weren't keeping water down very well for a while there."

It was said matter-of-factly, but Sam knew that meant a lot of fun clean-up and worry about dehydration. He inched up the headboard under Dean's watchful gaze, and meekly accepted a steaming cup of something. "How long?"

Dean had to think about it, which alone gave Sam some idea of how things had gone. "Two-and-a-half days, give or take. Brought you something I thought your sensitive digestion could handle—man, smell these biscuits."

Maybe they were meant to be bland, but the warm baking powder scent made Sam's mouth water in anticipation. He snagged the whole bag over Dean's mild protest and dug in, groaning happily and alternating with sips of tea.

Dean was grinning at him.

"What?"

"Dude, you're so easy."

Sam showed him a mouthful of masticated biscuit in response, then drifted back to their previous topic. "Wait, we've been here for days? Aren't the police looking for us?" He sat up a little more, hiding a wince. "I can travel, Dean, just—"

"Whoa, wait, settle down, tiger," Dean said, lightly pushing him back. "You're not going anywhere for another few. And, no, they're not searching for us." Off Sam's look, Dean abandoned his breakfast sandwich with a sigh and twisted in place to grab the newspaper draped over a nearby chair. He tossed it into Sam's lap and started eating again.

Sam read quickly, then paused in surprise. "Police confirmed they were animal attacks? I thought…after seeing us in the woods like that…" He caught the pleased look on his brother's face, and his eyes narrowed. "What? What did you do?"

"Oh, nothing." Dean took a bite of his sandwich, gave Sam a smug look. "Just made a little delivery to the local police station. Kinda hard to deny it's an animal attack when the carcass shows up on your doorstep with all kinds of blood and clawmark evidence on it."

Sam choked a little on biscuit, waved off Dean's reaching hand. "Wait, you went back for that thing in the forest? And took it to the _police station_?"

"Dropped it off at the front door," Dean said, nodding. "Stuck a post-it note on it and everything, 'case they were a little slow connecting the dots."

Sam stared at him a moment, then broke out into a disbelieving laugh. "What happened to burning the body?"

Dean shrugged. "The thing's not coming back to life, Sam. If they want to bring in their experts to try to figure out what it was, so what? 'Least it'll close some of their files and get you off the hook. One of us should have a clean record, right?"

Sam's smile faded. And there it was, the underlying reason for seemingly everything Dean did: taking care of Sam. It was what the berserker hunt had become about, the showdown with two armed cops, the last few days he could barely remember. It was what had kept him going through this, too, losing Jess, missing Dad. That wasn't weakness, Sam swallowed hard through a suddenly tight throat. It was being loved.

"Sammy?"

He took another bite of biscuit and cleared his throat. "The nightmares…they're still coming."

Dean's whole posture shifted. "Yeah?" It was invitation to share.

Sam met his eyes directly. "Yeah. Nothing specific usually, just…bad."

Dean snorted softly. Sam wasn't even sure he realized he'd moved closer, tacitly reassuring. "Can't imagine what brought that on." Perspective, understanding, and support in a few words and gestures.

It was easier to go on once he'd started. Darkness dispersed once it was dragged into the light, the burden lightening as it was shared. He'd almost forgotten Dean had always been able to do that for him, ever since Sam could remember.

His leg had a bullet hole in it. They were in a motel room that smelled faintly of vomit and blood. He was eating biscuits because he wasn't sure he could keep anything else down. And his big brother was hovering close enough to touch, listening to him talk about his nightmares like it was the most important thing in the world.

And as he sat back to keep talking, Sam wouldn't have traded places with anyone for any price.

**The End**


End file.
